Biggles - Secret Agent

Biggles - Secret Agent

W.E. Johns

face hardened. His manner became cold and direct. ‘Listen, old man,’ he said in a terse whisper, ‘I will pay you to tell me what you know.’ ‘I know nothing.’ Biggles took out his wallet and slowly counted out twenty-five hundred-mark notes. ‘Will those restore your memory?’ he asked grimly. ‘With those, tomorrow you could leave this place for ever. Now tell me. Did you bury the doctor’s body?’ The Jew stared at the notes as if they fascinated him. ‘No,’ he insisted. ‘But you are the

willing to oblige, they failed to discover anything, which was in due course reported to the Professor, who made no complaint, and appeared to dismiss the matter from his mind. But the fact that he made such an inquiry has now become significant. The Professor rested, and quickly recovered his health. He was almost fit enough to resume work when he suggested to the government that a fortnight on the Riviera was all that was needed to put him on his feet again Naturally, our people would have

Ginger crawled backwards through the window and lowered himself hand over hand to the ground. Biggles followed, and, drawing the rope clear, coiled it and put it in his pocket. Then, keeping close to the wall, their rubber-soled shoes making no sound on the cobblestones, they made their way to the tool-shed where Biggles collected the crowbar. This done they retraced their steps and continued on to the village street, now silent and deserted, and set off at a brisk pace for the churchyard. Not a

he reached it. ‘Get in!’ shouted the stranger, who seemed to be beside himself with excitement. ‘Your boss is at the stick. I shall get fired for this when I get back—’ ‘You’ll be lucky to get back,’ Ginger told him, as he bundled the Professor and his son into the cabin. Looking round for Algy he saw him running a zigzag course towards the machine. A number of men had appeared at the edge of the wood. Spurts of orange flame showed that they were shooting. Panting, Algy reached the machine.

his pockets, was gazing reflectively at a few wisps of filmy cloud that appeared to be drawn slowly across a starlit sky by an unseen hand. ‘I think it’s all right,’ returned Biggles after a moment’s hesitation. The weather report is good, anyway. If we don’t go tonight it will mean waiting another week. I think we’ll get along. Are you feeling all right, Ginger?’ ‘As right as rain,’ answered Ginger carelessly. ‘All right, then; let’s go,’ murmured Biggles, and turning, walked towards where